


Captain's Privileges

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Star Trek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Consent Issues, M/M, Mirror Universe, Non-Graphic Violence, Power Dynamics, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25104583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: “Lieutenant Jason Peter Todd.”Jason grits his teeth and just barely resists the urge to spit his mouthful of blood at those shiny black shoes.“You know, I was expecting a lot of interesting things on this planet, but you certainly didn’t feature among them, Lieutenant.”It’s his mouth that gets him in trouble, always has and heknowsit. But still, he tilts his head up far enough to glare at the smiling son of a bitch looking down at him and snarl, “Guess you’ve got a shitty imagination,Captain.”
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 158
Kudos: 433





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! First and foremost, this is not related to my other Star-Trek-Fusion-Batman-Characters-Fucked-Up-Things universe. I just, really like the ST mirror universe so I'm coming back for a second, unrelated story. Engineer!Jason and Captain!Dick, this time.
> 
> As always, with mirror universe stuff, please expect as a given: Casual and accepted violence, fucked up power dynamics, usage of those power dynamics to take sexual advantage, entirely unhealthy relationships everywhere, consent issues like _whoa_ , and grey-to-black morality on even your favorites. Tags will be updated as we go.
> 
> Have fun!

“Lieutenant Jason Peter Todd.”

Jason grits his teeth and just barely resists the urge to spit his mouthful of blood at those shiny black shoes.

“You know, I was expecting a lot of interesting things on this planet, but you certainly didn’t feature among them, Lieutenant.”

It’s his mouth that gets him in trouble, always has and he _knows_ it. But still, he tilts his head up far enough to glare at the smiling son of a bitch looking down at him and snarl, “Guess you’ve got a shitty imagination, _Captain_.”

Security officer A puts a significantly less shiny boot in his stomach for that, and he chokes off the groan but knows it doesn’t matter, not with his face scraping the dirt on the stone walkway and not a one of the collection of aliens on the street around them willing to get within a half-dozen meters. He doesn’t blame any of them for that. Terrans are good customers and bad enemies, and whatever ship smiley-captain owns could probably wipe this town off the face of the planet, if the whim struck him.

On the other side, expeditions like this like to spend money and have fun, and most planets that belong to the empire know better than to turn their patronage away. Even if they had the right to say no, they need the business.

He presses his arm to his stomach. Tries to breathe in past the nausea. That’s not going to be the worst of it. No way he’s that lucky.

“According to this,” the captain says, like nothing even happened, “you’re supposed to be dead. Your whole ship went down, a few years ago. All crew lost, no retrievable record of what happened. Just wreckage and bodies. Looks like the assumption was that it was an ambush.”

Some signal must be given over his head, because the next moment the little cadre of security officers is dragging him off the ground, bundling his hands together at the small of his back and snapping cuffs over them with a whine of tech he’s very familiar with.

Smiley-captain is studying him, tablet nestled easily in the crook of one arm. “Think the survival of just a single engineer might change their ideas about what happened?”

Shit. Yeah, that’s half the reason that he never made any attempt to contact a passing ship for retrieval.

“I didn’t do it.” Not that his denial means anything. When has Starfleet ever taken someone’s _word_ as proof?

The captain shrugs, flicking his tablet off and letting it fall to his side. “Well, either you’re a traitor, or you’re a deserter. I’m sure by the time we hand you over to Starfleet command, we’ll have figured out which one.” His gaze lifts, dismissing him just like that. “You two; escort the Lieutenant to a cell. I expect him settled by the time I get back.”

Both of them chorus, “Yes, sir,” like the ass-kissers they obviously are. Course they are, if they got picked to come down to the planet with their captain.

They drag him off to the side of the street, smiley-captain striding off with his last security officer and the accompanying doctor — or science officer? Blue uniform and handheld case could mean either — at his back. A spot of bright uniforms and confidence in the otherwise dingy surroundings.

There’s no reason he can think of for them to even be here, but what does it matter? Whatever smiley-captain and his goons are doing in this town, it was just his bad luck to run into them before news of their arrival spread far enough to give him warning.

The little chirp of one of the security officer’s communicators is a sound Jason kind of hoped to never hear again. “Nightwing, three to beam up. We ran across a stray down here.”

“ _Understood. Standby for transport._ ”

Jason squeezes his eyes shut, and takes a deep breath. No point in fear; he needs to remember his time in service, and the Academy. He doesn’t have to be the nastiest, he doesn’t have to be untouchable, he just needs to prove he’s not an easy target. He can do that.

He _has_ to do that.

* * *

The way smiley-captain's eyebrows lift when he steps into the brig is intensely gratifying. Totally worth the fresh, sharp pain of what may or may not be broken ribs in his right side, and his dislocated shoulder.

The security officer — big, mean, and now with a lovely freshly broken nose and blood all over his face and the collar of his uniform — snaps to attention when his captain walks through the door, and then fidgets with obvious discomfort as he's looked at.

"You can leave," smiley-captain says, with a dismissive, displeased edge that actually makes the officer blanch.

"Captain—”

"If you can’t handle one bound prisoner, I don't think I need your assistance. You're dismissed; report to the medbay and get yourself changed."

The officer seems to realize that any argument is only going to end badly for him, so he offers a salute and nothing else, hurrying out the door. Then it's just Jason and the captain, who comes to stand on the other side of the force-field, studying him. Jason stares right back, because he's not feeling like moving right at the moment, and it gives him a better chance to see who he's dealing with, as opposed to when he was face-down on the street.

He's young. Younger than the captains that Jason's known in the past, and objectively handsome. Tousled black hair, impressively blue eyes, and a face that Jason's surprised made it this far up the ranks. Sharp jaw, good mouth; lean and fit, with the tight contours of the uniform clinging to the inwards angle of his waist. But there are the captain-braids at his shoulder, and he stands like he's got nothing to fear. It's enough to make Jason wary.

If someone with looks like that is sitting in a captain's chair, it's because they're dangerous. _Very_ dangerous.

(Dangerous in a different way than the security brutes from before, manhandling him and grinning, thinking they've got everything in hand just because they've got uniforms and phasers. Proved them wrong, though.)

"Do I want to know what you did to my other officers?" smiley-captain asks, with a flicker of exactly that playing over his lips.

Jason breathes in against the pain of his ribs, shifting just enough to decide that any more is a bad idea. "Should've kept their hands to themselves," he says, forcing himself to bare his teeth. "They'll think twice, next time."

"Or they'll come back with a grudge to settle."

Yeah, that's the other option. He'd still rather prove he's a pain in the ass than roll over and let them be one in his without a fight. "I'll take that chance."

What other choice does he have? Prisoners fall on the very bottom of the totem pole, and he's not interested in being an easy target on top of that. He doesn't think anyone's going to be jumping to his defense down here.

Smiley-captain finally gives an actual smile, a jarringly pretty, charming thing. Then he turns away, tapping his communicator as he heads back towards the control console. "Command, send a medic to the brig when you get a chance, would you? And a competent security officer."

There's a couple moments of pause, then a female voice says, " _Yes, Captain. On their way._ "

"Much appreciated, Donna."

'Command.' First officer, maybe? (Why does it matter? It's probably not going to help him; he's got exactly no chance of starting any kind of mutiny here, that's obvious.)

A few taps to the console, and the force-field comes down with a hum. Jason tenses.

It's not that he wasn't expecting torture, but he wasn't really expecting it from the captain himself. Usually captains don't get their hands dirty unless the offense is something personal. He hasn't done anything like that, as far as he knows. Just the one insult back on the planet? He doesn't even know the captain’s damn _name_.

He ignores the sharp stab of his ribs to get up, baring his teeth and moving away from the cot. Whatever the bastard wants, he's not going to make it easy. Maybe if he's lucky, he could even… No, there's no way a captain would leave themselves alone with him unless they were absolutely sure that they could handle him. No one that overconfident would ever make it to that rank, not with any real control of their crew, anyway, and everything Jason’s seen says he’s in complete control.

"Do you know what I find interesting, Todd?"

He flexes the hand that still works, wishing he had the tools to get the cuffs open. He could do it, with a minute to himself and a basic engineering kit. "Couldn't begin to guess."

Smiley-captain circles the console, one hand trailing over the metal edge of it before it falls away as he steps too far away, approaching his opened cell. "According to your records, you had a promising career ahead of you. You follow orders, you don't start unnecessary fights, and by all accounts you're a good engineer. Why throw all that away, Lieutenant?"

He's way too close for comfort now, but Jason doesn't have anywhere to go. Backing up would just back him into the wall of the cell, and somehow he doesn't think pinning himself to the wall is going to make the captain give him any more room.

"Being the only survivor of a massacre doesn't make people want to listen to you."

"Being a deserter doesn’t make that any better," is the instant response. "It'll be quite a fight to convince anyone you're not guilty now. Much worse than if you'd called for immediate retrieval. Even if you do, there's still the fact you deserted."

He’s not wrong, but Jason had more than enough time to think through all of it after the ambush, sitting in that escape pod by himself. Yes, it would make it harder to convince anyone that he wasn’t involved if he got caught, but he’d be _out_.

His teeth set together. "Well, maybe risking that was worth getting out of all the boot-licking, murdering _bullshit_ , Captain."

He kind of expects a punch. A knife. Something painful and immediate as punishment for snarling in the captain's face. He braces for it as much as he can, even knowing that there's nothing he can do about the obvious weaknesses of his ribs and shoulder.

But those blue eyes just look at him, calm and observing. Until he says, "No, you don't have the resolve for that, do you? You did well enough defending yourself, but a whole starship?” He shakes his head, smiles almost ruefully. “You don't have what it takes to kill that many people."

"I—” It feels weak, he feels _stripped_. "You don't know me."

Maybe that instability is why he doesn't see it coming, or maybe the captain's just that fast. Either way, one second he's being smiled at and the next he's keeling over, choking helplessly on the _pain_ radiating out from his uninjured side. It's fire, lit underneath his skin and burning worse than any phaser, and he'd scream if only he could get the _air_.

And it's gone.

He gasps, finds his eyes wet with tears and his knees on the floor as he tries to fill his lungs. He can't help the flinch when fingers touch his hair, but it doesn't stop them from curling into it and dragging him up from his folded over kneel.

He jerks away, sucks in a breath, but then something small and metallic presses against the base of his neck, and it's instinct more than anything that makes him freeze.

"I think I do, Jason."

His shiver is more of a minuscule jerk than anything else. His side feels like someone reached in under his skin and just shredded everything beneath; it’s fading with every inhale, but not fast enough to stop him feeling scraped raw.

“Sold into the Academy by your father, instead of voluntarily enlisting. Steady service on an unremarkable ship, advancement through promotion, no waves, just enough fighting to prove you weren’t a pushover.” The fingers in his hair loosen, but he doesn’t quite dare to move with the agonizer still resting against his neck. “I know your type. No ambition, no loyalty, and a soft heart. None of you chose to serve—” he feels the captain lean over him, voice lowering to a stage whisper “—and none of you have anything to go back to.”

It's a painfully neat summary of his life. Enough to make him feel sick, or maybe that's the leftover effect of the shock.

"You must do good work, though, Lieutenant." The fingers comb his bangs back, tugging on them to pull his head back and make him look up. "People like you don't go far without talent." The back of a knuckle traces the edge of his jaw. "Not even when they're handsome."

His working hand clenches. This is going to hurt; he _knows_ this is going to hurt.

"Fuck you."

The hand comes loose from his hair, and he braces for the pain, grits his teeth and—

It _pats_ him.

"I've got other plans right now," the captain says, and he's _smiling_ like Jason's just done something harmless and funny, "but I'll keep the offer in mind. Come on. With me."

The sudden grab of his hair doesn't give him much other choice. He shuffles awkwardly on his knees as smiley-captain drags him towards the middle of the room, unable to really keep up and his scalp paying for it. It's a harsh reminder that he has actual injuries, too, with the burn of the agonizer faded but his shoulder and ribs waking up to scream their protests at the movement. He's breathless all over again by the time the captain reaches his random spot on the floor, and the boot that plants between his shoulder blades and shoves him to the floor only makes that worse.

He gasps, biting back a groan and trying to shift up, get off the floor and back at least to kneeling.

Except that same boot steps down on his neck, pinning him with enough pressure to make him choke. The toe digs in under his jaw, and he has to crane his head back to escape it, get away from enough that he can get at least hitched, strained breaths.

"Stay down, Lieutenant. We're going to wait here for the medic, and you're going to lie there and behave yourself, understood?"

It would be so easy to fight, but if there's one thing that Jason learned in the Academy, it's that fighting commanding officers is usually a bad idea. Bad ideas are kind of his forte, apparently, but the shoe on his neck is only a step away from coming down on his dislocated shoulder, and just the idea of it has him feeling nauseous again.

So he bites his tongue, and spits out, "Understood."

The pressure at his neck increases, weight leaning into him till he chokes, jerking slightly. "Try a, 'Yes, sir.'"

Arrogant _bastard_.

Jason swallows back the anger, and the humiliation, and draws on all those old memories so that when the boot eases a little he can say, "Yes, sir." It's even mostly steady.

His reward is a further ease of pressure, letting him breathe pretty much normally. "Good boy."

All that time living planet-side, among other species… He'd almost forgotten what Starfleet was like. The nastiest, most ambitious, deadliest part of humanity, all crammed together in a single ship. The Academy was bad enough, but at least there was an expectation there that you were going to establish rank. Everyone started more or less equal — apart from the few that were owned before they ever stepped foot in its halls — and how well you did, what sort of a name you made for yourself, _that's_ what followed you up into space. If you proved yourself dangerous enough not to mess with, but not dangerous enough to be worth focusing on, you could skate by unnoticed.

On a ship, though? All it ever took for something to happen was one higher ranked person liking the way he looked, or sounded, or one of them just being in the wrong mood. There's no denying a senior officer unless you prefer getting the shit beaten out of you, or you're going to kill them, instead. Jason likes to think that he did a good job of avoiding playing the whole damn game altogether; never drew the attention of his captain, anyway. (Helped that his ship's Chief Engineer was really only interested in women, and when he didn't care to differentiate what gender was sucking him off he still didn't pick people the size and shape of Jason. Hard to pretend, probably.)

Captains… You don't say no to captains if you want to keep the skin on your back, let alone your life. They're not all quite as clearly in control as the arrogant bastard above him, but they all got to that rank somehow, and it sure as hell wasn't peaceful promotion.

The door swishes open, yanking Jason out of his self-imposed spiral and back to the reality of his position. He can't turn his head far enough to see who's coming in, pinned like he is, but whoever it is doesn't seem fazed by the sight waiting for them.

"Captain Grayson," a man's voice says, respectful but steady.

Medical? It sounds like someone from Medical. They've all got spines of fucking steel, in Jason's experience. Theoretically that Donna woman was sending one to them, as well as a replacement security officer.

Wait… Grayson? That sounds… familiar. Where has he heard that name?

The boot comes off his neck. "See to his shoulder and ribs," the captain orders, "and check for anything else serious."

It isn't till that moment that it clicks that the medic is here for _him_. It's not like there's anyone else — 'Captain Grayson' didn't look like whatever he was doing on the planet left him with so much as a scratch — but he's just a prisoner, and his injuries aren't anywhere close to life-threatening. Why would they bother?

Nothing he can think of is good. Except, maybe, that there's something about delivering already-injured prisoners to Starfleet Command that's frowned upon. (He's never heard of anything like that, but his ship never had prisoners; they weren't exactly a front-line vessel, even being optimistic.)

"Yes, sir."

That's about all the warning he gets before he's being grabbed by the hair again and dragged up, gritting his teeth against a cry of pain as he tries to get his knees under him, teetering some as he tries to get his balance. He manages, more or less. The medic is in front of him, eyeing him critically. A man a little older looking than his captain, brown hair, blue eyes, case in hand. There’s a security officer at his back, too. A woman, short black hair; more clothes than most. So it's probably the captain's hand in his hair, then, now coming loose.

Jason flinches when that hand pats his cheek. "Stay," the bastard orders, like he's a fucking dog. "Play nice."

He bites his tongue not to say anything, not to snap the same 'fuck you' that he did before, but only because he knows from personal experience that officers tend to be nastier when they have an audience. Acceptable behavior varies widely depending on who's watching; an insult here is likely to get him another hit with that agonizer, and he’d really prefer not to do that again.

It isn't like he didn't know what agonizers were supposed to be like, but before now he's never gotten hit with one firsthand. Not fun is putting it mildly.

The medic opens his case. "Do you want anesthetic, sir?" Definitely not aimed at him.

Sure enough, Grayson answers for him. "Only if it's necessary."

Jason grits his teeth and does his best to brace. This is going to hurt.

It does. Two fused ribs and the relocation of his shoulder later, he’s panting. Teary-eyed again, his shoulder aching almost worse than it did when it was out of place. Maybe that’s just the fresh pain skewing his memory, but it’s throbbing and he can feel how hot it is even without being able to get a hand up to touch it. Apparently none of which qualifies it as ‘necessary’ enough to get him any kind of numbing agent, and it doesn’t seem to be anything that the medic thinks needs to be fixed, either, because he’s packed the case back up.

“All done, Captain.”

Grayson doesn’t move from where he’s decided to lean, arms crossed and back against the security console. “Good. Stay to observe. Officer Creeley, get him in the booth.”

What?

It hits him just about when Creeley grabs him that the captain actually means that. Oh _shit_.

The new security officer realizes he’s about to fight before he does. Suddenly there’s an arm around his neck and a hand grabbing his aching shoulder, and his panicked response turns into nothing but a jerk of pain that accomplishes exactly nothing. His shout is choked, and the arms of the security officer steel as they drag him across the floor, his vision spotting black as the elbow compresses around his throat.

He’s pretty sure he doesn’t actually lose consciousness at all, but what feels like way too soon he’s being shoved forward. His shoulder hits something hard. He staggers, sucks in a breath and jerks his head up just in time to see the door slide shut on the booth.

Fuck. No. _No_.

“Set it high.” Captain Grayson’s voice comes in clear, despite the barrier. “Just a burst of a few seconds; let him get a taste of it.”

Creeley starts to circle around the security console, back to where the controls must be. Jason’s eyes widen, his gaze snapping back from the security officer to Captain Grayson. “Wait, I didn’t— You said you believed me.”

"So you shouldn't have any problems coming up with the right answers, should you?" Grayson pushes off the console, crossing the distance in a few leisurely strides to stand on the other side of the clear barrier. "Lieutenant, if I really thought you were a traitor you'd be finding out firsthand what this does to someone with already broken ribs. Creeley, flip it."

It hits like nothing else he's ever felt. It's not localized fire, like the captain's handheld one, spreading out into the muscle around impact. It hits him in a sweep, head to toe so fast he barely even registers at all that it wasn't instantaneous. And it's so much worse, makes the hit of before a pale memory as he seizes, bright, white pain lighting up what feels like every nerve he has.

And it's gone and he's on his knees, his shoulder against the outer barrier probably the only reason he isn't all the way on the floor. The leftover rawness fades faster than it did before, but maybe that's just the duration. It's every inch of skin though, every muscle, all the way down to his bones. All he can do is breathe, try to make his muscles do something more than lie limp. He clenches his hands; it makes his shoulder ache more fiercely, but that's almost a relief from the last bits of the shock.

"It can get worse," Grayson says, outside the booth. "Or easier. We'll see how things go.”

Shit. God, he can't imagine staying under that thing for more than a few seconds. He knows people do — he's seen people after punishments, working just fine — but the thought is nauseating. Even worse, when he considers what could have happened if Captain Grayson thought that he'd destroyed that ship. Muscle seizures, with broken ribs? It's not quite the same but he's seen similar things happen with electric and energy shocks; his ribs would be in pieces, best case scenario. Worst case, he'd have torn his own organs open with the edges.

"So, Jason, why don't you start by telling me what happened to your ship?"

Okay. Okay, alright. Just the truth, right?

"I—"

Everything jerks to the side with a sudden shudder. Grayson stumbles and drops into half a crouch, and Jason's pretty sure he would have slammed into the wall if he wasn't already kneeling. As it is his head cracks against the side of the booth.

The lights shift to a sharp, flashing red. The siren that cuts through the air is just familiar enough for Jason's heart to drop straight down into the pit of his stomach.

Grayson rights himself, a hand jerking up to his chest. "Bridge! What did you just do to my ship?!"

 _"Ambush, Captain!"_ someone yells back. _"Shields are up, we're tracking them now!"_

The way Grayson looks at him tells him everything he needs to know what the captain thinks about the 'coincidence.' "On my way. Blast them out of the sky, Commander!"

_"My pleasure, Captain!"_

Grayson spins around, striding past the recovering officers. "Officer Creeley, turn it down a level and leave it on. Let him marinate. Barrow—" the medic snaps to attention "—keep him conscious. I want him ready for questioning when I get back."

They both echo a, "Yes, sir!" just before Grayson disappears out the door.

The ship shakes again, less viciously this time.

Officer Creeley looks back at him, eyes narrowed, and hits the switch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Enjoy!

"Captain; weapon!"

Dick snarls around the heavy drag of air between his teeth, kneeing the alien pinning him to the floor in whatever approximation of a groin it has between its legs. Whatever it has, the sound it makes means it _hurts_ , and the six-fingered grip on his throat loosens enough he can jerk his head to the side. Weapons-fire sears the floor, close enough he feels the heat against his ear. Orange color, but not an energy or phaser type he recognizes.

"You will not take our land!" the alien above him shouts, gurgling around the edges in imperfect translation. Maybe it's just the groin shot. "We will poison it with our corpses before we allow you to consume it!"

What land it is Dick doesn't have a clue, but no prisoners is a philosophy he can work with.

They've got elbows just the same as terrans, so he breaks the one attached to the hand around his throat. It screams. He sinks his blade into its throat.

Terran-like lungs, tracheas, or muscles, who knows, but it cripples it all the same. A shove gets it off him, just in time for him to roll out of the way of another blast of fire. He pulls the blade from his other sleeve and flings it. Nails the grey-skinned thing right between its two sets of eyes. When it drops, he marks that down as a success, too.

The one that first knocked him to the ground is still gasping around the blade he left behind, no weapon close at hand as far as he can see, so he leaves it. His chair provides enough cover to get his phaser in hand, and a reassuring solidity at his back as he sweeps his gaze over the rest of the bridge.

Six—

Donna flings one against a bulkhead hard enough to dent the metal and its skull.

Five left, not all of his bridge crew still standing. Donna's already spinning to go after the two near her, so Dick aims for the one that's got his navigations officer slammed down over his station instead. Wally takes full advantage of the minor distraction of a new hole in its back, and puts a matching one in its head.

The distinctive whining blast of Victor's arm-cannon sounds from his right, there's a _thud_ from Donna's direction that sounds like more flesh-on-metal impact, and then all at once the bridge falls silent.

Dick pauses just long enough to be sure there are no other surprises about to spring out of thin air, then gets to his feet and sweeps his gaze around the bridge. A couple minor fires, seared plating, and roughly half his bridge crew standing. Some of the ones on the floor look like they might not be past saving, assuming sickbay didn't get their own visitors.

"Get those put out," he snaps. "West, get me a status report on the ship."

The nod Wally gives him has more meaning to it than just an acceptance of his order. Wally's vicious, but he'll remember who saved his life if it ever matters.

"Shields down, Captain. Weapons, too. Looks like we've had beam-ins all over the ship."

Alright. So they're not looking to destroy the ship. Not as a first option, anyway. They'll regret that.

"Stone, I want more detailed damage reports, and casualty lists if anyone's sending them. I need to know what state we're in." A nod. "Donna, organize your men. Sweep floor by floor if you have to, but I want every single one of these bastards off my ship."

She smiles. She's got black blood all over her hands. "Yes, sir."

He strides forward, stepping over the twitching body of his first attacker to come up to Wally's shoulder. "What about engines, West?"

The computer's negative beep tells him all he needs to know, even before Wally's frustrated, "No, Captain. We might have impulse but the warp core's down, at minimum. Whatever they used on us, it did a lot of damage."

So escape's not an option. Wouldn't be his first choice, anyway.

He taps his badge. "Engineering."

Past the siren of the red alert, there's a damning silence.

"Engineering, _respond_."

Nothing.

"West, get me a line to Engineering. Anyone still breathing; I don't care who."

"Yes, sir."

It takes longer than he'd like — minutes they can hardly spare — but finally Wally calls him back from his scanning of Victor's handful of reports.

"Got an answer, Captain. Not a comm or a station, so I just need a moment to…” A rapid-fire series of commands, and Dick catches the very edge of Wally's grin from his position behind his chair. "Got it. Pulling the feed up to the viewscreen now, Captain."

Much more than he'd like may be broken on his ship, but the viewscreen apparently works fine. It switches, and Dick finds out that apparently he _does_ care who's there to answer.

Short black hair, blue-green eyes, and a strong jaw currently smeared with familiar black-hued blood. Jason Todd. Lieutenant. Deserter. Either a traitor and an outstanding liar, or someone with the extraordinarily bad luck to be on _two_ ambushed ships in a row. The look on his face — wariness, exhaustion, bits of fear — says it's the latter, but Dick's not stupid or naive enough to trust in coincidence when the evidence continues to pile up.

Maybe these things tracked Todd. Maybe he led them here. Maybe he's a phenomenal liar and an agent of the rebellion, and this is a play to take the Nightwing off the board, for good.

Whatever the truth is, he's got an escaped, trained engineer next to some of the most volatile systems on his ship. That’s unacceptable.

"You're supposed to be in an agony booth," he says, scanning what little he can see behind Todd's head. It's an upwards angle; handheld tablet of some kind. There's not much but ceiling visible, and nothing that gives him any clue about the rest of Engineering.

_"Yeah, I'd really rather not be talking to you either."_ Todd's jaw shifts like he's grinding his teeth, even as he glares. _"Unfortunately, there's no way off your ship that doesn't end with getting used for target practice, and that's not a chance I feel like taking."_

No, it's not likely that whoever these aliens are, they'd just let a shuttle or an escape pod fly off. So it's what, a foiled escape? Bad timing? (If he's a traitor, why bother with the theatrics? Why not just blow them all to hell and get beamed off by his friends?)

"Where the hell are my crew?" he asks, and then drops his voice to almost nothing to ask Wally, "Where is he?"

"Main engineering, sir," Wally answers, just before Todd says, _"Dead. Most of them, anyway."_ He even manages to sound a little on edge about it.

"Nothing to do with you, of course?"

Todd's teeth flash. _"Look, asshole. The only reason I'm down here was to get hold of a kit to get your damn cuffs off me, which I did. If it were up to me, I'd already be gone, but lucky for you, you're a slightly better choice than those trigger-happy assholes out there. Like it or not I'm the only conscious, living person you've got in Engineering, so how about we make a deal?"_

Dick narrows his eyes, studying Todd's face. Everything tells him that it's the truth; his gut, his training… Todd's not wrong. No one else in Engineering is answering, and they probably don't have the time to waste to find another option. That doesn't mean he has to trust, just that he has to take what's been offered. "What are you suggesting?"

Wally twitches, in front of him, but he doesn't say anything. Whatever his expression is, it isn't blatant enough to draw Todd's attention.

_"I fix your ship, we get out of this, and you drop me back on that planet and leave. Your lives, my freedom. Deal?"_

"Assuming you can fix my ship."

It's not quite offense, and not quite desperation, but there's just enough of both in Todd's expression to give it away. _"You said I had to have been a good engineer, right? I am. I can do it."_ He swallows. _"It's not like your chances get any worse, even if I can't."_

Dick considers. It's not a bad deal; he could fake Todd's death in the battle, or file a report that he escaped in the chaos, or any number of things. But he doesn't particularly want to give up his prize, and Todd is stuck on the Nightwing the same as the rest of them. "Command already knows we caught you," he bluffs, watching the tightening around the edges of Todd's expression, "but I can make sure your contribution to the defense of this ship is taken into account, _if_ you can do what you're claiming."

There's hesitation, but it's so open that Dick doesn't need to be half as perceptive as he was trained to be to understand it. Deal or not, Todd will do his job. Whether it’s out of duty, survivor's guilt, or simply for the sake of living another day, for the moment it doesn't matter. He'll bend.

Sure enough, the hesitance hardens into determination. _"Deal. Alright, then tell me which of the hundred things wrong with your ship you want me to start with, Captain, and I'll get to work."_

Dick glances to the side, catches Donna's eye and echoes her faint nod. She'll make sure someone gets down there to keep an eye on their wandering prisoner. "Phasers," he says to Todd, "shields, engines. In that order."

Todd starts to move, setting the tablet down on something that gives him a sharper, upwards angled view. _"Yes, sir."_

Dick feels his eyebrows lift slightly as Todd sheds the top layer of the robe-like alien fashion he was wearing, from the planet below. The shirt below is sleeveless. When he leans onto whatever the tablet is set on, staring down to the side of it (a console?) it puts one of his arms in close, sharp relief. There's more muscle there than Dick was expecting from a tech, but maybe that should have been obvious, considering the broken nose on his security officer.

_"Whatever they hit you with it fried a lot of systems, but I think I can reroute power to get weapons online. I can get you temporary shielding right away, but it'll pull energy from other systems and they'll be a little flimsy till I can fix the primary connections."_

"Do it. What about communications?"

Todd's brow furrows. The arm that isn't braced sweeps over the console. _"Looks fine on this end; probably they're jamming everything. I might be able to figure out a way around it but it's not my specialty, sir."_

"Don't bother." He has someone else for that. "Weapons first, Lieutenant. Let me know the second you're done."

_“Yes, sir.”_

The feed cuts off.

Reluctance and desertion aside, Todd certainly snapped right back to his training. Interesting.

He shoves any further thought of that to the back of his mind.

“Stone! If they’re jamming us, find a way around it. Don’t send anything yet, but get me the option.” He pushes off Wally’s chair, turns towards Donna. “Troy, take a look at that ship. They think we’re crippled and they’ve been beaming boarding parties in, so there’s a good chance they left their shields down. I want you to find me targets and do the calculations; weapons, shield generator, life support, and engines. The second we've got the charge, take them out of commission."

Donna inclines her head, brushing sweat off her brow with the swipe of an arm, and heads for her station.

He takes a look around the bridge, taking in the dead on the floor, the seared metal. He thinks of the rest of the ship, then. How many of his crew are still alive? How much damage has been done to his ship?

Well… Not as much as what Dick plans to do to them.

"Let’s show them what ‘crippled’ means, shall we?”

* * *

Dick nudges the corpse at his feet with the tip of his boot, rolling it over onto its front.

It's not the only one here, by far. Medical is still working on triage, and Security are still sweeping the last parts of the ship, so none of the dead have been collected yet. It isn't a priority. Not yet, anyway. He should remind Medical to keep a few of the corpses — and the living — for examination. So far, no one's been able to tell him exactly who these self-righteous invaders are.

There are more important things for right now, though.

"Summarize the damage for me."

Todd, standing in front of him, glances down at the body but doesn't comment. He's still stripped down to the sleeveless top, his hands covered in black that could be alien blood, or soot, or some type of oil. Or some mixture of all of it. Whatever it is, Todd's idly wiping his hands with a cloth he seems to have procured from somewhere, though it's not doing much. Whatever the stain is, it's smeared along bits of his arms too, and some on his face.

"Alright, well…” Todd sweeps his gaze around the room, shifting his jaw from side to side. "I've got most things up and running, but a lot of it is temporary fixes. Reroutes of power, patches… There's a lot that needs replacing. Most of it can be done on-ship, but you'll need to stop by a port somewhere for the last of it. Your ship just doesn't have big enough replicators to manufacture the largest parts; you need a maintenance bay."

Not unexpected. Not to mention, of course, that a good portion of his crew — counts still coming in — are either dead or injured, and running the Nightwing so far below capacity isn't something Dick likes to do outside of emergencies. Even if the ship itself was fine, they'd still need to return to a Starfleet base for replacement crew.

"And where does that leave my ship, Lieutenant?"

Apparently giving up on his hands, Todd tosses the cloth off onto one of the stations. "Phasers and shields are a little flimsy; they've got full power but it won't last long, not till the conduits can be restored. Uh… Life support is stable, and the emergency bulkheads for sections fourteen and thirty-two are holding fine, so that's good. Engines are functional, but I wouldn't press her past warp two right now. If you give me…” Todd pauses, staring at the station he threw the cloth to. There's a furrow in his brow, gaze distant. A few moments later he finishes, "Two hours? Two hours and I can probably get you up to five."

Five's not bad. Slower than he'd like, but it should get them to the closest station within the week, if he's doing the math right. "Pulling our friend along with us?"

Todd grimaces. "That's a lot of power. Unless you want to shut down other non-essential systems, I'd say that probably brings it back down to warp three or four. I'd have to take a closer look."

Three is too slow. Too much time, and there's a possibility that this ship had friends that might be coming for it. At a speed as slow as warp three, it won't be at all difficult to guess the direction they've headed; any deviance from the fastest course possible would leave them stranded for far too long.

Assuming that their wayward prisoner is telling the truth.

A quick scan of the room turns up just one other tech in earshot at a station not too far away, doing a very bad job of pretending not to be listening. The other two are at the opposite end of the room, both on their backs and half-underneath a wall, so it's not as likely they heard anything.

"You!" he calls, and the man jumps, flinches, and then turns.

"Yes, Captain?" His tone is guilty, wary, and trying to be respectful all at the same time. Dick doesn't have time for any of those things.

"I want you to verify what he—” he indicates Todd, just in case "—just told me."

The man's eyes widen. He looks supremely uncomfortable, which is another thing that Dick doesn't have time for right now. "I… I don't really know, Captain. I'm sure what the Lieutenant said was accurate."

In his peripherals, he can see Todd's eyebrows lift towards his hair.

"I mean, I know there's a lot of damage, but I wouldn't know—”

"You're not wearing that uniform because you're _Security,_ " Dick snaps. The tech flinches and knocks his hip into the console hard enough he almost falls onto it. "So if you can't manage looking at a screen and telling me what parts of my ship are damaged, I'm going to need a very compelling reason why you're on my crew."

Apparently there isn’t any compelling reason, because the tech all but falls over in his haste to spin around and activate the station he was backed up against. It lights up, and Dick keeps his attention on the man instead of the screen, watching the faint shake of his hands.

"Computer, show me the current damage reports for all systems." His voice is shaking, too. Just enough to be noticeable.

He watches for a moment, then asks, "Do you need him to repeat what he said?" when the tech doesn't say anything.

The tech swallows. "No, sir."

Dick braces his hands on his hips, waiting. Nudges the corpse again, with his toe. Todd crosses his arms. Dick watches his hands grasp each opposite bicep, muscle tight underneath the fingers, the skin still damp with sweat. It really is more muscle than engineers tend to have, in his experience. If he'd only seen the stats, he would have pegged Todd as a security officer, not a mechanic. Is that because of Todd having lived down on the planet, or has he always been more muscular than the average engineer?

"It looks right to me, Captain. Sir. The warp core…” Dick follows the little flicker of his gaze back towards Todd. " _I_ couldn't fix it in two hours, sir, but…”

"I'm not fixing it," Todd corrects, with more than a hint of a sharp edge himself. "It's just a better patch, until it can _get_ fixed. Ideally you'd sit here six to eight hours and let that happen, but I didn't think that was real likely."

No. Not likely. "Did you have something you were assigned to do, officer?" he asks the tech.

"Yes, sir."

"Then go do it. You're dismissed."

Evidently, whatever he was doing on that station to begin with wasn't what he'd been assigned to do, because with the permission given, he quickly makes himself scarce. Out of main engineering and off to do whatever he was postponing to eavesdrop. Presumably within his talents. As far as he's aware, in lieu of any real command structure down here it's Todd that's been giving orders, so whatever he was sent to do it must be something necessary.

Or at least useful.

Todd's arms fall, but one rises a second later to pinch his brow, eyes squeezing shut. "What's left of Engineering?"

"Less than I'd like," Dick chooses to admit, after a moment. Todd's not loyal to him, but he's loyal enough to the empire to do his duty, when the situation calls for it. This has proven that well enough. "Might have been that they didn't know our uniforms well enough to distinguish Security from Engineering, but they seemed to target gold uniforms more than anyone else. According to the reports that have come in, we lost roughly two thirds."

That doesn't seem to surprise Todd at all, but then, there are more than a few bodies scattered around within eyesight, most in gold uniforms. "That only leaves a little above a skeleton crew."

Unfortunately. Whether it was intentional or an accident, most of the command structure was wiped out, too. It doesn't leave Engineering in particularly good condition, and there's far too much for them to do at the moment.

"For the time being. Once we reach a Starfleet port, the crew can be replaced."

Todd's arms cross again, eyes narrowing a touch. "And until then?"

Dick lifts an eyebrow. "Are you volunteering?"

Todd hesitates, visibly enough that it's obvious he was, even though he tries to deny it with a, "No."

He shifts his fingers just enough to touch the agonizer hooked to his sash, and waits till Todd's gaze flicks down to it and then back up before he smiles. "Well, you can volunteer, _Lieutenant_ , or you can spend the trip in one of the cells. Up to you."

Another glance at the agonizer. "Then I guess I'm volunteering."

Apparently he doesn't need to verbalize the rest of the threat for Todd to understand it. Smart man.

"Good. You have two hours to get me some decent speed, Lieutenant. You'll fill in as head of Engineering till we reach the closest port, and coordinate all our survivors on whatever needs to be done. Medical will be advised to send you all crew as they're treated." He steps back, casting his gaze over main engineering, taking in the obvious damage. "My communications officer will get you a combadge, and temporary access to our systems. You'll be assigned a security escort, and you'll spend any downtime in your cell. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Todd swallows, then lifts his chin and meets his gaze. "I'm not telling you this so you can do anything about it, but just so you know, your officer agreed with my assessment because he was looking at damage reports _I_ submitted. There was a logged-in pad, and I used that to get the information in the system." Todd exhales and crosses his arms. "But I need all the hands I can get, so, just wait to do whatever it is you're going to do till we're at port. I'll keep him on simple tasks; there's more than enough."

If his Chief Engineer is still living, somewhere in this mess, they're going to have a serious discussion about hiring practices. Either way, that officer leaves his ship the second they're docked somewhere. After Dick's done with him. At least the travel will give him adequate enough time to think up suitable punishment for being either an incompetent idiot, or a panicking one.

"Granted. You can keep him, for now. And Todd?" He has the full attention of those blue-green eyes. "If you _do_ damage or sabotage my ship in any way, be assured that I'll make sure you live long enough to be handed over to Starfleet, so they can treat you like the traitor you are. Is that clear?"

He doesn’t flinch. “Clear, sir.”

Good. "Then get to work. Two hours, Lieutenant."

Todd doesn't wait for any other permission. He turns away, goes back to his station without any further encouragement. Dick watches for just a moment before he turns away as well, leaving main engineering to his temporary Chief. He needs to contact Raven, to prioritize Engineering crew. Victor, to get Todd access to their systems. Donna, for the escort, and to get their attackers' ship stripped of anything valuable before they leave. Hm. Well, there's one thing that takes priority over all of that.

He pauses at one of the control panels on the wall, taps to make sure that it's working. "Computer, open a ship-wide channel."

It chimes.

"Crew of the Nightwing, this is your captain." His own voice echoes back at him from somewhere down the corridor. "Until I say differently, boys and girls, all our Engineering crew is off limits. Play nice."

They need them.

At least for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Couple days late, I know, but I've had my head buried in other writings and didn't particularly come up for air till today. So, enjoy!
> 
> (For anyone who needs it, there are a couple minor content warnings which are in the bottom note.)

"I want to keep him."

On the screen in front of him, Bruce lifts an eyebrow. Just the one. There's no outright and immediate refusal, though, which falls right in line with Dick's expectations. "Why?"

He smiles, leans his head back to show off his neck. "I like the way he looks.”

Bruce's gaze lowers, tracing the line of his shoulder and chest with the same unreadable, closed expression as always. Dick's not naive enough to think that the glance at the arch of his throat is in any way a concession.

"Tell me," he demands, as if he doesn't have Todd's folder open, as if he hasn't looked it over a dozen times already. He would have done it the second Dick sent his first message about the capture.

"He's tall. Black hair, with just a little bit of curl; just long enough to get a grip in. Pretty blue-green eyes. Pale skin, or at least it will be once he's been on the ship a while. In shape, too. Almost looks like Security. _Excellent_ thighs." He tilts his head to peer out from under his eyelashes, laugh soft and low, and mostly truthfully. "He's not any good at being obedient, but he's smart enough to know he should be trying. It's his mouth that gets him in trouble."

"Hm. And?"

Dick lets his head roll till his neck cracks, and he sighs and lets his eyes flicker shut. Not in thought; he knows all the right answers already. "He's soft." He flicks his eyes open, looks at Bruce's reaction. "No ambition. All bark, no bite. Perfect kind of dog to own, I think."

"A little bite can be useful," Bruce points out, with the barest twitch of his lip. If anyone were listening, they might think the point to Bruce's words is to remind Dick that he himself is owned.

The one thing Dick's never been is a dog.

So he leans onto the desk and smiles. "Sure, but you know the only person I let bite me is you, _Admiral_. I'll keep him in a muzzle if he snaps. Promise."

There’s the little flare of interest. Bruce doesn’t react in any obvious way to his flirtation, but he does tilt his chair slightly, his gaze as openly considering as it ever is. Which isn’t much, but Dick’s had almost a decade of learning how to read the man that’s been everything from his owner, to captain, to lover, and most things in between. Bruce likes, above all else, _useful_ things. Loyal things. Things that he can predict, and manipulate, and possess without any unusual levels of risk. He likes control.

Dick doesn't fit all those descriptors. They both know that. He does, however, fit _enough_.

"He's a traitor," Bruce points out, glancing at something outside the limited torso shot the viewscreen supplies.

"Maybe." He responds to the upwards twitch of Bruce's eyebrow by relaxing back against his chair. "I don't think he has the stomach to be a traitor. Maybe selling secrets, but helping destroy a ship? Kill his crew? I think he's unlucky, not ruthless."

"Unlucky enough to be in two separate attacks?"

"Mm." He lets his gaze flick down, considering exactly what to say for a moment. Maybe just a bit of honesty, to tie this together. "If Todd had wanted to destroy this ship, I think he could have. He's an excellent engineer, and he had full access to Main Engineering in the middle of the attack. You can do a lot of damage in there even if you don't know what you're doing, and he does. I think if he was working as an agent for those aliens, we'd be floating in space, and he'd be gone."

There's nothing so obvious as the scrub of a hand over Bruce's face, or a frown. Just an extra beat of silence that speaks just as loudly. "That's your opinion?"

Dick lowers his voice slightly to answer, "You know I don't like to admit weakness."

"Only when I force you to," Bruce comments, with the tiniest flicker of a smile.

There are certainly some memories there. He's the privileged one, of course. Bruce might twist him around and force him to the edge of breaking on occasion, but he's never taken that last step. Dick's never been one of those officers left to stagger out of his office, fault lines so obvious they might as well have been made of glass for how easy Bruce found it to shatter them. He never will be, if he has anything to say about it.

Dick inclines his head in acknowledgement, and lets Bruce consider, letting the silence stretch.

Finally, Bruce shifts, tapping the fingers of one hand on the desk. "When you reach the station, he'll be questioned. I'll observe. If his answers are satisfactory, you can keep him." An eyebrow lifts. "There will be conditions."

"And a price?" he guesses, with a smile.

Bruce breathes out an amused sound. "I'm sure you can think of something appropriate."

Oh, he can definitely think of something.

* * *

On the plus side, Jason now remembers where he's heard the name Grayson before. It only took Admiral Bruce _fucking_ Wayne showing up on a viewscreen for him to realize, suddenly, exactly who the hell his smiling bastard of a captor is.

Richard 'Dick' Grayson. Captain of the _Nightwing_ , right hand loyalist to then-Captain and now-Admiral Bruce Wayne since his Academy days, and one of those record-holding success stories the instructors use to try and motivate or terrify students into productivity. By all accounts he's one of the most dangerous captains out there, and this ship was specifically built for him, never mind the fact that there was another captain at its helm when it launched.

On the negative side, having the attention of an admiral is something that he never ever wants to experience again. He thought 'marinating' was bad, when Grayson left him to the mercy of that security grunt in the agonizer booth, but now he gets that he had no idea what those things could do. He feels flayed; all his skin laid open and raw, nerves so sensitized even the brush of his clothes hurts. He can't stop shaking. When it's over he can't remember half of what he said in answer to the questioning, and it takes two security officers to drag him off the floor of the booth and get him on his feet again. Not that he can stand.

Apparently there were orders said over his head, because the officers seem to have a destination in mind, and Admiral Wayne doesn't say anything to stop them. Hell if he knows, though. His hearing is fuzzy, his vision blurring at the edges, and he's pretty sure he bit his cheek at some point because there's a strong, metallic taste of blood on his tongue. The hard grip around his arms makes him want to shout, if only his throat wasn't scraped raw from all the screaming.

It isn't until they're halfway through dragging him onto a shuttle that he starts to come back to himself. A little. Enough to be cognizant of being strapped to a seat, his wrists clipped to something on the wall behind him.

"Where are you taking me?" he asks, more of a rasp than anything else.

The officer finishing up clipping him in backhands him, hard enough to send him reeling, brought up short by the restraints on his wrists and over his thighs. He grunts in pain, blinks rapidly to clear the new onslaught of spots assaulting his vision.

"Shut up, deserter. Another word out of you and I'll find something to occupy your mouth."

"Easy," the second officer cuts in, from up at the helm. Jason forces himself to look that way, but all he can really see is the back of the chair. "He's promised, remember? It's our asses if he shows up damaged."

'Promised'? What are they talking about?

He almost asks, but then the first officer snorts and says, "I don't think the captain will mind if his new toy gets a little lesson on holding his tongue."

"Well I'd rather not find out. Just sit down, Griffith. Take it out on one of the recruits later, or something."

'Griffith' shakes his head, but walks away without hitting him again, so apparently he's conceding. Jason works his jaw, swallows what feels like fresh blood — if his cheek wasn't cut before, it is now — and shuts his eyes to try to quell the faint spinning of his surroundings. It's not the worst hit he's taken, not by far, but everything just _hurts_. Compounding in on itself till one smack makes the whole side of his face light up in renewed agony.

Guess he knows where the name came from now, huh?

The shuttle hums to life and he pries his eyes open, forces himself to watch as it lifts off, slides out of the station docking bay and out into space. There's a distant planet he can see, through the limited view he gets past the officers' chairs and through the main window, but far more important is the ship that comes into sharp relief as the shuttle turns out towards the blackness of space. The _Nightwing;_ grey metal and bold black and blue patterning, with the sharp angles and bristling weaponry of a front line ship.

They said 'captain.' It has to be Grayson, doesn't it? They're taking him back to Grayson. He's 'promised' to Grayson, whatever the fuck that means. Can't be anything good.

He'd really like to know more, but he doesn't much trust in Officer Griffith's sense of restraint, so he holds his tongue. The trip — transporters must be shut down for repairs; he's pretty sure he remembers there being a few major ones that would require it — gives him a chance to breathe, anyway. His hands are still shaking, and every once in a while a bigger shudder rips across his back, but it's getting easier to be steady. The weakness of his legs, at least, is starting to lessen.

Docking bay seems to be working fine; they slip right in, and the officers waste no time in getting him up and moving again. Hands cuffed at his back, this time.

It's a mess of activity in the corridors, rushing engineers, mostly, with a scattering of sharp-eyed, watching security officers moving in calmer, controlled strides. Jason's not surprised. He did what he could to facilitate repairs while they were on their way here, but more time than he would have liked was spent just keeping what he patched together from breaking. Ships as complex as this weren't made to run with that many critical errors. They still had a hefty list of repairs that were needed when they got here, and he can't imagine that's changed much in... however long he was in that interrogation chamber.

Down corridors, up a lift that the officers warn two other engineers off of with a glare. It's crew quarters that they step off on. That doesn't bode well. The cells are one thing, but if they're taking him to Captain Grayson's actual rooms, that's a whole other dynamic. Points some directions he doesn't like.

But that's just what happens. They stop at a door — removed from any others, at the end of a corridor all its own — and one officer chimes for entrance. The door slides open a couple moments later.

Jason's never actually been in any captain's quarters before. Apparently they get multiple rooms, because this first one seems more like an office than anything. A desk at one side, couches and low table on the other. One closed door at the side, presumably leading further in.

Grayson's sitting at the corner of the desk. Captain Grayson. Fuck.

Blue eyes flick over him, taking him in from head to toe, before turning to the officers flanking him. "You can let him go. Remove the cuffs."

They do. One shoves him forward and his legs don't quite hold, sending him crashing down on his knees, barely catching himself on a hand. He sees the shiny black boots settle fully on the ground as Grayson straightens up off the desk, taking a step forward. He looks up just in time for a hand to catch his chin, tugging his head higher till his eyes meet Grayson's. The fingers tilt his head to the side, thumb sliding over the angle of his jaw.

Grayson looks up to the officers. "Which one of you is responsible for this?"

There's only a beat of silence before the voice of officer-two says, "Him," in a quick rush.

Grayson lets him go. Steps off to the side and approaches the officer. Jason turns his head to look, swallowing as Grayson steps up towards Officer Griffith. The officer's a couple inches taller than he is, but it doesn't seem like much of anything with the easy confidence he stands with.

"I have it on good authority that you were told to be hands-off, Officer. Do you want to tell me why you decided to ignore Admiral Wayne's order?"

Griffith is rapidly losing the color in his cheeks. He stammers a rough, "I— I uh—”

Grayson moves in a rapid burst of motion. Jason sees the crack of knuckles to Griffith's cheek, how he staggers, but something happens that he misses and suddenly Griffith's falling instead of stabilizing, catching himself on a knee and hand as he hits the ground. Grayson's heel comes down on the braced hand with an audible _crunch._

"The next time a superior officer tells you to be hands-off," Grayson says, over the shout, "you keep your _hands. Off._ Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir!"

Grayson steps back. Lets the security officer recoil with his hand to his chest. "Get off my ship. Both of you."

Officer-two snaps a salute, and all but drags Griffith back out the door. It locks behind them, and Grayson turns back to him. He can't help but tense.

"Security sometimes, right?" Grayson's tone is incongruently casual, indifferent to the fact that he just crushed something like a half dozen bones. He walks past, back to the corner of the desk. "They like them big and strong, but that doesn't always mean smart. Personally I don't think a security officer is useful if they aren't smart enough to be professional when it's demanded. Violence is a tool to be used, not an automatic state of being."

Grayson has something in a cup that he picks up, looking over it at him as he takes a sip. Swirls it in the cup, slightly. Jason's not quite brave enough to get up off his knees. He's not brave enough to ask what's going on, either.

"I hear that my Admiral was satisfied with the results of your interrogation. You're no longer suspected of allying with the aliens that attacked my ship." Jason feels a sharp rush of relief, almost immediately snuffed out by the next words. "Of course, you're still a deserter, and a new investigation will be launched into the destruction of the ship you were stationed on, now that we have your account of what happened. If Starfleet Command ends up with any more questions, you'll be answering them."

Grayson sets the cup down. "Until the results of that investigation, however, you'll be allowed to return to service." The captain smiles, and maybe it might look friendly, if Jason didn't know who he was. "Here. Under my supervision. Congratulations, Todd, you're my new Chief Engineer."

That's— Wait.

"This ship?" he asks, wincing faintly at how the words scrape through his throat.

"Well, I find myself in need of capable engineers." The smile widens, just a touch. "Lucky you."

No, this isn't a _favor_. There's something here he isn't going to like at all and Grayson just hasn't said it yet. The whole thing feels wrong, and you don't just get a promotion to Chief of _anything_ without paying some price. Usually the last Chief's life, but that's off the table here. Grayson could have promoted anyone he wanted. Why _him?_

Jason's hands clench, his whole chest feeling tight from the wariness. "In exchange for what?"

There's a flicker of something he can't read in Grayson's expression, before he slides off the desk and stands. "You deserted, Todd. My word is the only reason you're being allowed to serve at all." The smile sharpens. "You know the usual punishments for desertion."

Yeah, he does. Execution. Slavery. 'Donation' to the various research arms of Starfleet for whatever human experimentation they might need. Deserters don't live long, and they don't die quietly.

Grayson turns to reach back across the desk, picking up something circular and metal. "Aren't you lucky that I think you'll be useful?"

It's a collar. It's a fucking collar.

Jason jolts to his feet, stepping blindly back as Grayson turns back towards him. "No."

Captain Grayson straightens up off the desk, humming as he presses his fingers to the collar, unclasps it. "Yes. This part's non-negotiable; flight risk engineers get short leashes. You wear this, or you go back to Starfleet Command." The collar hinges open, and Grayson steps forward. "And this time, I'll make sure that you're treated as a traitor."

Fuck. _Fuck_. That's not a choice. That's work here, or get the skin publicly flayed off him as many times as they can manage it before he dies from sheer stress, and that's just what he can think of off the top of his head. Traitors… That's different. That's so far past deserters.

Grayson knows it. The opened collar stays in his hand, held at his side as he stops just in front of him. "So, Lieutenant? Am I calling those officers back?"

If he's here… If he's here, he at least might get the chance to escape again. The collar probably has some sort of tracker or something in it, but he can disable those, and he can figure out how to get it off of him. It's not permanent. He can manage it.

"I—” Fuck, it's hard to force the words out. "I'll wear it."

Grayson's smile is all mockery. "Good boy."

He reaches up, and Jason has to fight not to jerk away or snap as the metal brushes his throat, cold and as threatening as a knife. When it hinges shut it fits close, resting at the base of his neck, and it gives a very quiet beep that sounds a lot like a locking mechanism. Grayson's fingers skim over his shoulders as he pulls back, goes back to the desk and his drink. He feels like he's going to hyperventilate.

"That collar was put together just for you, Todd. It works as a remote agonizer." A hand comes up, and there's some kind of small, grey thing in Grayson's grip, mostly hidden by his fingers. "I have the remote. Try anything, and I'll drop you."

It's okay. He can get it off, he can—

"It's tamper-proof, too. Any attempt to take it off, or disable it, activates the agonizer. Not enough to kill you, at least not for a while, but enough to put you on the ground till I can come retrieve you." Grayson circles his desk and takes a seat in the chair, kicking his boots up onto the desk. "So, let's talk about what choices you do have, shall we?"

It's hard to breathe, every shift of his neck making him hyper-aware of the new metal around his throat. When he swallows, it feels like choking.

He shoves that thought as far down in the back of his skull as he can. Chains it down, shuts it away and wrenches his focus back to the now. He can't dwell on this right now. He needs to think, he needs to get his shit together and focus because he hasn't got any fucking cards to play and he _has_ to try and play his lack of a hand as best he can. Just because Grayson's got him over a barrel doesn't mean he has to leave his ass sticking out to make it easier to fuck him over, too.

Maybe he shouldn't buy into it, since it's not like captains giving 'choices' ever really mean them, but with the way Grayson's looking at him, he almost has to.

"What are the choices?"

Grayson's gaze is sharp, even if the easy rest of his boots and the hands clasped loosely over his stomach all speak of relaxation. "While they're waiting on the results of the new investigation, I own you. Doesn't mean you have to be mine, necessarily. Lot of people would like to have your new title, and a lot of people would like to be favored by the Captain, too. If you want me to protect you from them, the cost is that you belong to me. However I want, wherever I want, whenever I want."

Be his personal pet. Yeah, that's not actually all that surprising. Jason's nails dig into his palms. "Or?"

The quick flash of a smile, and suddenly there's a knife in Grayson's hand. Fuck knows where he pulled it from, but it's small and glinting, and he's spinning it around his fingers in idle motion. "Or, you reject my conditions. You go it on your own." Grayson shrugs, leans back just a touch more. His gaze falls to the knife, as he flicks it up and catches it again. "You can try that, if you want. I won't stop you."

That's hardly a choice at all. Crews like this are full of ambitious bastards just waiting for a weakness, and he's got the weakest position possible to start with. 'Owned' by the captain, collared with what might as well be a shock collar, and a complete stranger to the crew, shoved into a position of power over them. He doesn't have their respect or their fear. They won't follow him unless someone higher tells them to. The only person higher is Captain Grayson.

So he can get fucked. Or he can get fucked.

Great choice.

At least one option lets him fight, though. Maybe it's doomed, but there's always a chance that he manages it on his own, somehow. Not likely.

He'd still rather go down swinging.

“I’ll take my chances.”

Grayson flips the knife again, and then looks up at him with amusement. Laid back and calm, as if he just thinks the refusal is funny. "Alright, you can go then. The station's engineers will be conducting repairs until tomorrow, so you'll have tonight to get acclimated to the ship; security will escort you to your new quarters. Report to Engineering at oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow, and I expect you in uniform, Lieutenant. Understood?"

Oh yeah, he's sure it'll all go just that easy.

"Understood."

There’s a brief pause as Grayson's gaze goes cold. Clearly a warning, and it takes a second — those fingers creeping to a sturdier grip around the hilt of the blade — before Jason settles on a guess of what it's supposed to be about.

He grits his teeth, and adds a terse, "Sir."

It's enough.

Grayson flicks the blade's tip in the direction of the door. "You're dismissed."

The collar a heavy, inescapable weight around his neck, he turns and walks out.

* * *

Dick watches his new toy vanish out the door, spinning the little blade he’d been toying with for effect between his fingers one more time before he leans forward and taps the controls on his desk with his free hand.

“Donna,” he greets with a smile, when her face pops up on the angled screen.

She glances away from him, presumably off to some sort of a mirror, as he seems to have caught her in the middle of tying back her hair. “Captain.”

He tilts his head, studying the wave of her hair as she weaves it into a clean braid. “I want you to do something for me.”

Her gaze comes back to his. Cool for the moment, but he’s seen more than once how she can come alive in a warzone. Their enemies would put up a hell of a lot more fight if she had her way, if only so she could spend more time breaking spines with her bare hands. He might be concerned about that making her an unreliable, violence-seeking officer, except that he knows her too well for that. She knows him, too. Maybe dangerously so.

(Well enough that he would never try to bed her, not only because it would cost him an excellent Chief of Security, but because he wouldn’t be particularly likely to survive the encounter. He knows where and when to take his risks, and she isn’t one worth taking. It’s mutual respect. He knows if she ever does decide to try to take his captaincy, it will be so well planned he won’t have a chance of victory, and if it isn’t, she’ll die. Messily. Painfully. It’s an agreement they’ve come to.)

So she doesn’t say anything, merely watches him and waits for the command.

“Our new Chief of Engineering just left my quarters,” he offers, for context. She doesn’t know all his plans, but rumors spread fast, and it’s difficult to miss the kind of transaction that ends in ownership. “Firstly, spread the word to a few of our less savory crew that it’s open season. He’s not to be killed, but if anyone wants a little fun, they can have it. Might want to warn them he’s a fighter, though.”

There’s the calculation, picking apart the possibilities of what he’s planning. She doesn’t actually ask, though, and that’s one of the things that makes her so valuable.

“Secondly, pick one or two of your officers that can be trusted to keep their hands to themselves.” He spins the knife again. “Keep an eye on Mr. Todd. When the first person brings him down, shoot them, and bring him to me. I want to prove a point.”

She smiles with just the very corners of her mouth, and finishes tying her braid back with one final _snap_ of the hairband. “As you wish, sir.”

“And Donna?” he adds, stilling the knife to hold her gaze. “If there’s any permanent damage done to my property, you’ll be the one I hold responsible. Understood?”

Donna doesn’t shy from him; that’s the other part of what makes her valuable. “Of course, Captain. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Which is why she’ll never fail him. Not if it can be helped, anyway.

“I know. See you on the bridge, Commander.”

He cuts the feed, leans back in the chair to go over his angles, one more time.

It should all work as Dick expects it to, and it should serve all the functions that he needs it to, assuming that Jason can put up a decent fight. He can win some respect from the crew, prove he has bite, and learn that none of that matters. Not without his word to lend weight to it, anyway. Jason is his, leashed and owned, and if he wants the benefits that come with his possession, well…

He'll learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for the chapter include: reference to just-past torture via agony booth, vague threats of sexual assault, casual breaking of fingers/hand (not Jason's), collaring, discussion of people as owned objects.
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! (I'm not dead, promise, just fried my brain during NaNo. Slowly getting it back up and running again.) Enjoy!

The first one to trip Jason's senses is standing just at the end of the corridor as he heads into Engineering.

He's not blind, and he's got a pretty goddamn good sense of when people are paying more attention to him than they should (especially when that attention's negative), so he notices the guy. He's not an engineer, first and foremost, so him lingering just around the corner from the door is odd to begin with. It's a red command uniform instead; low-rank, at a glance. The way he eyes Jason, expression studying and intense, is the immediate second clue. Sure, most people are looking at him right now, but this is different.

It's not the wary, studying watch of the crew that he's been placed in charge of, watching to see what he's made of, if he knows what he's doing, if he has any weaknesses to exploit. This look, watching him as he enters Engineering with his not particularly subtle security shadow not that far behind, is hungry. Not checking to see if he has weaknesses, but watching for an opportunity to strike at one already seen. Concerning, because he's never even met the guy, far as he knows, but he supposes he should expect people on this ship to know who he is, even if he hasn't met them. 'Benefits' of Captain Grayson's bullshit.

(What advantage would a low-ranking command-track officer get by attacking the Chief of Engineering, though? They're not even in the same advancement track, let alone of remotely similar ranks. That might mean it's not about advancement, necessarily. Or maybe he's acting as someone's muscle. Plausible deniability if he messes up, and an easy way to test the waters. It's easy to promise someone power or a reward if you don't think that they're going to accomplish their part of the deal.)

Whatever this guy is here to do, it points something out to Jason. He needs to work on defending himself, _now_. Yes, fixing the last bits of the ship is important — he knows the kind of 'discipline' Security deals out, when captains think their officers are slacking — but he can't make it here unless he can defend himself, and he can't defend himself unless he puts effort into it. This isn't the Academy, or some random little ship on the outskirts of Imperial territory. This is the fucking _Nightwing_.

It's a state of the art, dangerous, gorgeous ship, crewed by some of the best in Starfleet. Only the handful of ships run by admirals outranks the _Nightwing_ , as he understands it. The ones that the Empire sends out when there's true war, or a neighbor needs to be ruthlessly reminded who holds the power. Otherwise, Captain Grayson is Admiral Wayne's right hand, and even other admirals wouldn't risk ordering him around without reason.

Jason needs to establish himself quickly, and viciously, and he needs to be prepared for people to come at him and force him to do that before he's ready. He doesn't have the normal protections of an officer. No blades, no phaser, no agonizer, no weapons to protect himself at all. He can't assume that somehow he's going to be better at hand-to-hand than anyone that decides to take a shot at him, or that they won't have weapons that make that a moot point anyway.

Lucky he's the Chief Engineer. Nearly complete access to ship systems, and given how thin the Engineering crew still is, probably not many people capable of keeping track of exactly what sort of changes he might make. He's got a suspicion that Captain Grayson's not going to let him run around with any standard weapons, so handmade it is. Today and right now, ideally, because that guy out there isn't about to wait for him to be ready. He could strike any minute; doesn't take an Engineering badge to get through the door.

Jason passes out assignments, reviews the list of work still to be completed, checks the progress of what everyone's been assigned to, to familiarize himself with all of it. And as he does, he works on a couple side projects. Subtle enough that his security shadow isn't going to notice; not unless they're secretly an engineer, anyway. Just a couple things to help him get an upper hand.

The guy's not subtle, and not that patient, either. An hour passes before he comes into Main Engineering, hovering in the corner like he's not the only red-shirt in the whole place, and not the only person in the whole damn room not actively doing something. Jason looks at him just to let him know he's been noticed, and goes back to work, keeping his guard up. No one's going to warn him about someone coming at him; he has to watch his own back, here. (And obviously, his security shadow doesn't care whether someone's threatening him or not, or they'd have thrown this guy out already.)

The guy does pick a good moment, at least. He's distracted by a conversation, standing over a console with one of the new-to-the-ship engineers assigned to work under him and making sure he understands how _vitally fucking important_ it is that he finishes the rewiring before any of the larger crews get to that area, and if he needs a second pair of hands, he needs to say so. They don't want a whole team held up because one person hasn't finished readying the area.

Jason's almost taken off guard. But he shakes his head, his gaze flicks off to the side for a second, and there's a reflection in the console. The red-shirted guy, coming at his back, moving quiet and slow but at a steady pace.

He nearly spins around and confronts the guy, straight out, on automatic. Then he breathes out instead, picking up his pad from where he'd dropped it on the console to talk to Mr. 'I can handle all this alone.' He better actually get this done, or Jason's going to be very annoyed. "Just go get started," he orders, keeping an eye on the reflection. "You've got two hours till they reach you. Be done."

The flicker of gaze behind him makes Jason sure this guy knows exactly what's about to happen. But all he says is, "Yes, Chief," and steps back, starting to head across the room but also _very_ obviously watching.

Of course he is.

In the reflection, he sees the officer creep closer to him. Fifteen feet. Ten. He coils to lunge.

Jason taps the waiting command on the pad.

The combadge on red-shirt's chest overloads. Sends him to the ground at Jason's feet with a sharp cry, jerking and twitching as the little piece of tech blasts electricity through him. Built to run forever, those are; lot of power in them for such a tiny thing. Of course, no one but someone with access to the network for all the crew's badges and knowledge of how to code a purposeful failure command could make use of that. Sometimes, holding your own means thinking a little outside the box.

Jason takes his time turning around, refusing to show anything but disinterest as he looks down at the man. It's not lethal; he'll be fine, and it's the show that's most important right now. Around him, Main Engineering is dead silent apart from the hum of the warp core. What he does right now will tell everyone around him what he's made of, and what to expect from him in the future. It's the difference between fighting for his life at every turn, and proving he's not to be messed with. He can't afford to get this wrong.

"Computer," he calls, making sure his voice will be audible to everyone watching, "identify the crew member in front of me."

The friendly little chime of acknowledgment from his pad comes just a moment before the smooth, female, _"The crew member four feet ahead of you is Ensign Julius Hales."_

"Create a level one containment field around Ensign Hales. Lock to my voice."

A chime, and the force field buzzes into place, from floor to ceiling. (Nice to know that's working, actually, but not important right now.) Now that he's sure his would-be attacker isn't going anywhere, he turns his attention back to his pad, and resets the combadge with an easy couple taps. Hales goes limp, chest heaving in stuttered breaths, still twitching with the last few electrical impulses running through his nerves. A little more harmful than an agonizer, but he'll live. Starfleet wouldn't let anyone with medical problems severe enough to die from a simple shock serve on a ship like this. They wouldn't have made it through the Academy, probably.

"Ensign," he snaps, pulling at every memory of every instructor he's ever had, "do you want to tell me why you're wasting my time?"

Hales swallows reflexively. He's maybe Jason's age; auburn hair in a short cut, a sparse beard, olive-toned skin. Brown eyes, when he looks up. Not bad looking. Not particularly good looking, either. He looks like he's maybe realized that this wasn't a particularly good strategy. But, on the heels of that comes an arrogant puff of confidence, limbs trembling but steady enough to get him on his feet.

"I don't answer to you, deserter," Hales sneers.

"You answer to me as a senior officer," he snaps back. "Main Engineering is _my_ territory, Ensign. I don't care what track you're in; you step foot in here, you follow my rules, and you answer my questions before I get tired of asking them. Is that understood?"

Jason sees the disaster about to happen just as Hales' sneer turns into a mocking grin. It's too late to stop it.

"Your rank doesn't mean shit. Everyone knows you're only here cause Captain Grayson wanted a new toy." His eyes narrow. "A soft, cowardly, little collared engineer deserter to play with till he gets bored. The only power you have on this ship is what he lets you lick off his boots."

Fuck.

Still, the room is dead silent.

Jason knows there's only one real option. A declaration like that can't be left unanswered, not if he wants to keep his skin. Hales might not have managed anything, but if he lets him walk away? If he lets it be known that anyone can attack him, insult him, and get away with it without consequence? He won't last two minutes, and it won't be a pleasant end. Grayson will win.

He doesn't have any choice.

"Computer, in sixty seconds, drop the containment field and beam Ensign Hales approximately thirty yards off the port nacelle; begin verbal countdown at ten seconds. Lock command to my voice."

_"Acknowledged, Lieutenant."_

Hales goes impressively pale. "I— Lieutenant. _Chief_."

Jason makes himself stay impassive, ignoring the twist of his stomach. "Looks like what I 'lick off Captain Grayson's boots' is enough, doesn't it?"

"Lieutenant, I didn't mean— Please, you can have anything you want. _Please_."

He crosses his arms. There's no way out for the ensign now (he can't afford that, no matter how much he wants to call this off), but that doesn't mean he can't get a little information, first. "Alright. Why don't you tell me why you thought this was a good idea?"

Hales' chest heaves with his inhalation, eyes wide and desperate. "It's a rumor. It's just a rumor! They say that you turned down Captain Grayson's protection. They say you're free game to anyone that wants to have some fun."

Fuck. That fucking smiling son of a bitch. Set the crew on him so he gives in, is that it? Let anyone that wants to fuck him, if they can manage it, till he goes crawling back to be Grayson's exclusive toy?

"Who is 'they'?"

_"Ten,"_ the computer announces, cheerily.

"Just some of the other crew! They were talking about it over dinner at the end of yesterday's shift!"

_"Five."_

"Lieutenant, please!"

_"Three."_

The anger makes it a little easier to ignore the plea. He clings onto it. "Thank you. You've been very helpful."

_"One."_

There's a tiny delay. The force field winks out, and there's just a small fraction where Hales stares at him, horror in the wideness of his eyes. Then the transporter clicks in. There's the almost musical hum, the immediate fade of Hales' form even as his mouth opens to scream. The sound never makes it out.

He waits a few moments. "Computer, confirm Ensign Julius Hales' location?"

_"Ensign Julius Hales is thirty yards off the port nacelle, Lieutenant."_

He feels a little nauseous. He forces it down.

"I believe you all have work to do," Jason points out, keeping his voice hard and threatening as he takes a slow look around the room. The 'unless you'd like to join him' is silent; that doesn't mean it's not audible.

His engineers rush back to work. His security shadow, leaning back against an out of the way section of wall, just smirks at him when their gazes meet. Well, at least now Jason knows for sure that the security is there to keep him from doing anything he shouldn't, not to actually protect him, or scare off potential rapists, or anything else. But they won't stop him from defending himself, either.

Jason flexes his hands, forces every nauseous bit of shock down to the pit of his stomach, and goes back to his console. He's going to need a little more than some half-assed voice commands if he wants to make it through this, and he _is_ going to make it through.

Captain Grayson can kiss his ass.

* * *

"What's the count?"

"Six crew sent to sickbay with serious injuries, five for minor ones; all treated without issue except Ensign Trace, who lost the eye. Three other crew beamed directly into agonizer chambers, which were activated on timers without any apparent assistance from the techs on duty." Donna pages up on the pad. "Three fatalities; one direct and two related. Ensign Hales, from the first day, and a pair of officers that attempted to beam into his quarters during night shift and apparently hit a failsafe. They never materialized."

Dick leans his head onto his hand, watching Donna shake her head. "Clever. And Lieutenant Todd?"

Another swipe across the pad, towards the very top of whatever document she has open on it. Todd's ship file, presumably. "A dislocated shoulder — treated — and some bruising. Had a split lip for a few days. Nothing my security officers have felt the need to step in for."

Not bad at all. Two weeks, and Todd's held his own so far. Very clever usage of the ship's systems to substitute as weaponry. Mostly nonlethal, of course; his new dog doesn't seem to like to bite unless he's forced to, and he likes killing even less. It all just solidifies to Dick that he made a good bargain, negotiating to keep Todd on his ship. He's smart, skilled, and hard enough to take some force to break, which means he won't fold over for just anyone.

Dick's impressed, actually. Maybe he'd be frustrated if Todd was nothing but something to play with, proving tougher than he'd anticipated and delaying his plans, but as a captain, watching a freshly promoted Chief of Engineering? He's impressed. He can't have a Chief of Engineering that the crew won't follow; in that respect, Todd's settling in nicely. (The physical aspect of it Dick can ignore, for now. He'll get what he wants, eventually.)

"Anything else I should be aware of? Ship-wide?"

Donna cocks her weight to one side, pad lowering as she lifts her gaze to look at him instead. "Some fights here and there, some injuries. Nothing serious, and no disruption of duties large enough to be worth mentioning. It's just the new crew we picked up at the station integrating; give it a couple more weeks and most of it will be done. I've already sent the report of all incidents to you."

"I'll take a look. The repairs?"

"Seem to be proceeding as expected. I haven't gotten any reports of injuries caused by ship failures." She lifts an eyebrow, and her lips quirk up just a tiny bit. "Todd would know the details."

Dick returns the smile. "I suppose he would. Thank you for the report, Commander Troy."

"Captain."

She leaves his ready room. He leans back and considers a few moments.

Todd hasn't reported to him in person since he was brought back on board. It might be good to prove to him, and to all the others watching him, that Dick still has control over him. If anyone has the idea that Todd's being rebellious, or disobedient, and he's letting it slide, that won't do. It weakens his position, even if they think he's just allowing it because it amuses him. He should prove that Todd's still under his command.

"Computer," Dick asks, "where is Lieutenant Todd?"

He's not remotely expecting the unerringly friendly voice to answer, _"Lieutenant Todd is not on the ship."_

Dick's jerked to his feet and raised a hand halfway to his combadge, before his mind catches up with the reaction. He can't have _lost_ Todd. They've been in space, at warp for most of it. There's nowhere for him to go, not unless he took one of the shuttles, and _someone_ would have reported a missing shuttle. There's no way his crew is so incompetent as to have completely missed the disappearance of their Chief Engineer, and Todd doesn't have any friends to facilitate a move like that.

No, it's something else.

He taps his combadge, lowering both hands to brace against the desk. "Grayson to Lieutenant Todd. Report to my ready room, Lieutenant."

There's a damning moment of silence, but just as Dick's teeth set together there comes an, _"Acknowledged, Captain."_

Alright, he's here. Dick slowly sits back down, tapping his fingers on the desk as he thinks. It would make sense that Todd wouldn't want his location able to be pinpointed at any given moment, considering the assaults he's been weathering. He has Engineering's access to the combadge's network, and access to most of the ship's systems. He could have disabled the recognition of his own combadge, but that would also disable door recognition of him, along with a handful of other necessities. It could all be overridden by manual control, or voice command, but it would be a hassle.

Or, Todd's adjusted ship programming so it doesn't identify him to anyone that asks. That would likely be easier, though Dick isn't familiar enough with the technicalities to be sure.

Whatever he's done, if it results in Dick being unable to locate him, it's unacceptable. Todd can protect himself however he likes, but when his methods infringe on Dick's control as captain (and his owner) it crosses lines. He'll need to remind the lieutenant that his safety comes second to being available for his captain.

He can think of a few enjoyable ways to teach that particular lesson.

The report of incidents isn't particularly interesting, but Dick looks over it as he waits anyway. Scuffles and a few failed attempts at claims, for the most part. Nothing that stands out as needing attention, but he knew that already. He trusts Donna to keep him informed, at least as long as she doesn't intend on killing him. Integrating new crew always comes with minor things like this, and he agrees with her assessment; a few more weeks, and everyone will have established a new pecking order, and picked out their new choices of stress relief, if they're high enough rank or dangerous enough to do that.

And, if any of these new people are stupid enough to try taking a shot at him, it'll happen by then. He doesn't think they will. His commanding officers all survived, and jumping more than one station at a time is something only idiots or the truly gifted aspire to.

The door chimes a request for access. Dick closes out the report, and leans back. "Enter."

It slides open and Todd steps in, taking a couple steps inside and hovering there, just far enough for the door to close behind him and leave them alone. He looks wary. Tired, too. A hint of circles under his eyes, and a slump to his shoulders. Lucky that his bridge crew has nothing to gain through taking Todd down, because Dick doubts a single one of them missed what he sees now. Someone vulnerable.

"Captain," Todd says. No attempt to make his tone any less wary than his expression.

"Sit down," Dick orders, as tempting as it is to make him stand the whole time and see if he starts wavering. It's almost as entertaining watching him carefully edge forward and sit down in the seat in front of his desk, looking like he expects the chair to spring out restraints or something. Not a bad idea, actually. Things to consider for potential future use. "Rough couple of weeks?"

Todd visibly bites his tongue. "Can't imagine why," he says a second later. His teeth grit, and the next sentence grinds out between them. "Almost like someone told the whole crew I was an open target, or something."

If that was the second choice of words, Dick's amused at the thought of what the first might have been. "You wanted me to tell everyone not to touch you?" He shrugs, and offers a smile. "That's not free, Todd, and you said you didn't want my protection."

He looks like he wants to argue that, but all Todd actually says is, "I don't."

Dick gets up, circling his desk to come to Todd's side. He's stiff as a board, but he doesn't move away when Dick takes a seat on the edge of the desk, reaching out to hook a finger underneath the metal agonizer-collar Bruce insisted on Todd wearing. He's certainly glad he agreed to that; Todd looks good in a collar, even if it's thicker than he'd like. He'd look better in something slim, and tighter. Leather, maybe, in a black or a red. Maybe with a tag, so everyone knows exactly who he belongs to.

Maybe he could fit the agonizer into some sort of an implant, or cuffs, instead. (Bruce would probably insist it be around the throat instead of a wrist, though. Easier to cut off a hand than a head; don't want it escapable.)

"Then if my crew see a handsome new Chief of Engineering and decide they want a piece, I'm not going to stop them." He takes an appreciative and pointed look down, at the stretch of uniform over Todd's thighs, and then back up to where it clings to his biceps. "It's only fair that they get a chance at you, if they want it. After all, what I _did_ spread was that they weren't allowed to kill you. You have a security escort for a reason, you know."

Todd's hands are curled tight and restless at his sides. If the seat had arms, he's sure those fingers would be digging in hard enough to be white-knuckled. "Here I thought that it was just there to make sure I didn't get a hold of anything I could actually use to defend myself."

Dick smiles. He _does_ appreciate the attitude, at least here in private. What a mouth. "They can multitask. How's the shoulder?"

"Fine. So they're spying on me, too?"

"I get copies of all incident reports. I paid quite a price for you, you know. It would be a shame to lose you to some ambitious engineer, just like that."

Todd's gaze flashes, sharp with curiosity. "What was the price?"

Nothing that he wasn't fine with giving, but Todd won't know half of it till he's agreed to being owned. Dick owes his admiral a video or two, once he has his new engineer tamed; Bruce's kinks, not his, but he'll enjoy the performance. "That's between me and Admiral Wayne, isn't it?" He lets go of the collar, straightening up and a little reluctantly backing off the verbal play. "Division heads report to me once a week, in person. Consider this your first. Update me on the status of my ship, Lieutenant."

Todd swallows, but he rallies quickly enough. It's obvious how fast he settles, talking about the _Nightwing's_ systems. There's still one big swap-out left for when they're next out of warp, to do with the shields according to him, but everything else major has been taken care of. There's still a long list of maintenance and small replacements, but those can be done day to day, as possible. There are as many lingering problems from forcing the ship to run with damaged systems as there were from the original attack, and that's just a matter of time and work to get fixed.

Progressing as expected, then. Good. By the time they get back to the actual mission they were on, before all of this bullshit, they should be back to full functionality.

"Well done," Dick praises. "You've done a good job organizing all of the repairs." Interestingly, Todd flushes just a bit. Hm. He'll remember that, for later.

"Thank you, sir." Oh, that's sweet too. He could enjoy hearing that more often.

One thing first, though. "Now, I have one question."

Todd immediately snaps back to being guarded, like he can sense what's coming. Good instincts. "What is it?"

Dick pauses for a moment, letting the anticipation hang there, before he speaks. "For some reason, the computer informed me earlier that you were no longer on the ship. Would you like to tell me why?"

Todd winces, instantly. He shifts in his seat. "Because I adjusted the responses so it would say that."

Mmhm.

“And is there some reason you thought your captain didn’t need to know where you were?” he asks, and doesn't bother to hide it behind any sort of a falsely sweet tone. Todd wouldn't believe it, even if he did.

Todd's throat works, under the collar. His eyes shut for a moment, and then he takes a breath and straightens in his seat, lifting his chin. "No, sir. I wasn't thinking about you when I did it. I don't have an excuse."

How honest. That's rather refreshing, actually. Most officers plead and whine and try and blame anyone but themselves, if they think they're in trouble. Not his command crew, of course, but his command crew very rarely do anything worth reprimanding. They're better trained than that.

Dick holds Todd's gaze, studying him for a few moments. There are plenty of nerves, but he doesn't waver. "I appreciate your honesty," he says first. "I'm still going to punish you, but because you took responsibility for your mistake, it's going to be private, and I'll lessen what I had in mind."

Not that he'd ever planned to have his new pet's very first punishment out in front of anyone, but Dick can let him assume otherwise, and be grateful for the 'mercy.' No, he'd much rather savor all those fresh reactions himself, with no audience to note his interest or admire what isn't theirs.

"Thank you, sir," Todd says, though his hands clench over his thighs like he hates the words. That's fine; it doesn't stop Dick from enjoying how they sound.

Choices, choices… So many things he could do to his engineer.

He stands, and takes a step forward to put his hand on Todd's shoulder, feel the muscle flinch and tense under his hand.

"Stand up, Lieutenant. Let's get started."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


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